


Devotions

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Lost Prince - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Atheism, Churches & Cathedrals, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Loyalty, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: Originally posted for a"100 words of nonbelievers"thread on FFA.
Relationships: Marco Loristan & The Rat
Kudos: 4





	Devotions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for a ["100 words of nonbelievers"](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/438277.html?thread=2607966469#cmt2607966469) thread on FFA.

The ancient stone that is the church’s outer wall is cool against the back of the Rat’s head in the summer swelter. Though the bench is in the shade, he closes his eyes against the glare of the August sun off a thousand whitewashed buildings as it climbs toward its zenith. Sweat beads on his forehead, soaks into his military uniform.

Nine days out of ten, Melzarr in summer is glorious. This is the tenth day, when the winds soar north from Africa to bathe the city in steam. The perverse thought occurs to him, as it always does on such days: _If I’d known this damned place could be such a furnace I’d have stayed in London._

The first time he had this thought, it shamed him deeply. Now he simply flicks it from his mind, like the ash from the end of a cigar. It was never a possibility, and thus the Rat troubles himself about no more than he might about never having flown to the moon and back.

The heat and the waiting make him nod, settle his mind into the rhythms of the chants that slip out through the cracks between the ponderous stone and the gaudy stained-glass windows. He catches himself, not for the first time this morning, and scowls. _Bloody churches._ Having sampled their tender mercies as a lad he’s got no truck with them at all. No-one is being baptised, married, or buried today, nor is there a lamp to be lighted nor Forgers of the Sword to meet; and therefore here he sits, waiting for Marco.

This does not please Marco, who believes with all his heart. It cannot make the Rat think less of him — nothing can — but it does not move him to embrace any of that tosh. _I’ve done and will do a great many things for you, my prince,_ he said the first time the difference arose between them, holding Marco’s warm dark gaze, fondness striving with flint within him. _This is not one of them. I beg you to not ask me again._

Marco had blinked first, then cut his gaze away for a moment. Those who do not know him might have thought it weakness. It was anything but: it was forbearance, it was understanding, it was his gift for knowing other men. It was one of many things that make him the true heir to the throne of Samavia.

The chants die away, and the haphazard buzz of conversation rises in their wake. The Rat blinks himself into greater alertness and grips the handles of his crutches, levering himself aright. He hears the massive slabs of carved oak that are the doors creak open. Then there are the voices of Marco and King Ivor in conversation amid the dull thudding of boots on the stone walkway: the always-present guardsmen.

“One moment, Father,” the Rat hears Marco say, and then he rounds the corner of the church. The Rat's heart swells, as it always does at the sight of him. His prince’s countenance is serene, as if his heart has been washed clean of all strife. Those who do not know him might, again, see it as softness. They would be fools, the Rat thinks.

For a moment, just a moment, jealousy's fangs sink into his breast. Would he could obtain that serenity just by sitting and standing and sitting again and spewing rubbish and inhaling powdered tree gums. 

And then he thinks: _I am simply not made for such things._ And, once again, he is more than at peace with it.

The shadow of disapproval flickers for but a moment in Marco's eyes. He sets his hands on the Rat’s shoulders. “My prince,” says the Rat.

“My aide-de-camp,” says Marco, and the Rat is awash anew in the only and the rightest devotion he has ever known.


End file.
